


I Break Up a Wedding and Save a Lady (With Help From a Rather Pleasant Serbian Lady)

by Worffan101



Series: Two Badasses in Essos: A Four Badasses Spinoff [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Mad Jack is exactly what he sounds like, No seriously this one's creepy, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, References to period-typical child marriage, Reinhard Heydrich is a monster, Trigger warnings: Sociopathic main character, internal monologue of a sociopath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worffan101/pseuds/Worffan101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly mentally-ill Englishman and a Serbian partisan wake up in Pentos just before Daenerys's wedding.  Britishness, violence, and critical misunderstandings ensue.  </p>
<p>Meanwhile, one of the most evil men ever wakes up in Qarth and begins to plot...</p>
<p>Originally posted on AH.com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Break Up a Wedding and Save a Lady (With Help From a Rather Pleasant Serbian Lady)

**Author's Note:**

> Please do read the tags first. Reinhard Heydrich was a sociopathic monster who planned the systematic murder of an entire religion for his own personal power, and was evil enough to creep out Adolf Hitler. I have attempted to show the thought process of such a sociopath here. This is intended to be creepy, and will not be for everyone. If you are uncomfortable watching or reading things like Hannibal Lecter movies, this is probably not the story for you. While previously I've marked my stories Mature because I'm not sure about how much of a rating the swearing and such should get, this story NEEDS the rating. 
> 
> If you've read my stuff with the four soldiers in Westeros, I consider this semi-canon with respect to the "main" story with Lyudmilia and the boys. Thanks to theg*ddam*hoi2fan for beta'ing!

John Malcom Thorpe Fleming Churchill woke up with a grunt of pain at the sudden light in his eyes.   
  
"Argh...bloody Huns, no respect for prisoners..."   
  
"You are awake? Good." The voice was female, with a thick Russian- or Greek-sounding accent. The Englishman rolled over, seeing a stone-faced muscular block of a woman leaning over him, a gun slung over her back and several medals on her chest. It took the groggy Churchill a moment to refocus.   
  
"Ouch...where am I? The last I remember, those damned Huns had left me in another damned camp after they recaptured me."   
  
"I do not know. You are English?" Serbian. That was the accent, from the northern Balkans. Churchill nodded, sitting up with another sore grunt.   
  
"Indeed I am, madam. My name is John Churchill, Lieutenant-Colonel in His Majesty's service, but the men call me Mad Jack. And you are?"   
  
"Milunka Savic. Sergeant, First Army, Serbia. Honorably discharged. I don't know where we are, I woke up ten minutes ago in my old uniform with my rifle and an ammunition pouch. I took a look outside, we are in some kind of city, it looks a little old-fashioned. No motorcars or telegraph poles."   
  
"No automobiles?" Mad Jack blinked, shook his head, and forced himself to his feet. "Dear Lord, where are we?"   
  
"I said I do not know." Savic motioned behind him. "You have weapons."   
  
Mad Jack turned. "Bloody he--ah, my apologies, my lady. My sword and bow! And a pistol! I thought the blasted Huns had taken my weapons!"   
  
"Clearly they gave them back. Or something did, anyway." Savic swore in Serbian. "I think we should work together, Englishman. I want to get back to my husband and children, and if we work together..."   
  
"It should be easier for both of us," the Englishman agreed. "Lead on, dear lady."   
  
"Lady?" The Serb snorted. "Been a long time since anyone called me Lady. Unless "cleaning lady" counts. You ready?"   
  
Churchill strapped on his pistol and looked for a mirror. There was none in this odd stone room, so he opted after a moment to check his mustache with his hand. Good, it still felt the same. "One moment, my lady. I must buckle on my sword--any officer who goes into battle without his sword is improperly dressed!"   
  
Savic snorted. "They never told me that. What year do you think it is, anyway?"   
  
"The Year of Our Lord 1945, madam. The Huns locked me in one of their blasted concentration camps, and not for the first time, might I add."   
  
"1945? Damnation, I thought it was 1934! Something isn't right."   
  
"Indeed, madam." Churchill shook his head. "But I dare say there isn't much we can do about it at the moment."   
  
Savic swore again in Serbian. "Right. Right. Well, then. We must figure out where we are and how to return home. The sooner the better, I have work and children to feed!"   
  
Churchill strode to the door and opened it. "Madam."   
  
"Such a gentleman!" Savic chuckled as she passed. "They don't make men like you anymore, sadly. Alright, I see something going on out there on the plain. Lots of tents, horses. A good place to start."   
  
"Lead the way, madam."   
***  
The man was surprised to wake up.   
  
Well, perhaps "man" was the wrong term. The mind that inhabited the body that rose may not technically have qualified as human, given how completely and totally consumed it was by amoral ambition and its chilling, utter lack of regard for human life. However, his parents might be convinced to allege that he had once been a not-terribly-unusual boy, and his brother would vouch firmly for him (at least until he read the mind's journals and realized how wrong he had been), so by and large it was reasonable to call the man a man, at least for the sake of convenience. Even if the most hated monster in the history of his species had often remarked upon the man's inhumanity.   
  
Regardless. The man was surprised to wake up, give that the darkness had risen to claim him after the sickness had taken hold. He'd rather expected something with more fire, perhaps a quaint half-goat man with a trident there to attempt to torment him, or perhaps some more metaphorical hell as he had been taught as a boy. But no, it appeared that he was not, in fact, dead, although he was in a strange stone room. How odd. He supposed that it made sense that the inferior Czechs and British swine could not do the job properly, and even those idiot doctors Globocnik had brought in could possibly have saved his life. A pity for those Czechs, then; the man was an expert on intricate torments, but he was also very accomplished at more...large-scale endeavors. Perhaps he would find their families and have them tortured to death. Globocnick would like that, at least.   
  
The man rose to his feet. He was still wearing his uniform, the crisp longcoat with the Iron Cross on its usual place. How odd, the uniform was clean and without wrinkles, and he did not feel even the slightest scarring or other injury. The man calmly divested himself of the coat and unbuttoned his shirt to check; he was, indeed, uninjured underneath, as if the bullets had never touched him. Unusual.   
  
The man re-buttoned his shirt, tucked it in, and donned the coat. Those half-wit surgeons could not have done this. Had the mad Austrian finally discovered his laughable Teutonic magic? An absurd proposition, but perhaps more credible than the man had considered. However, he had to discover where he was, first. And also where that damned reek was coming from.   
  
The man checked the door. Unlocked. He opened it quietly, slipped out into an empty hallway, and closed the door behind him. It was rather warm in this place, and the smell was now more prominent. Perhaps he had been relocated to near one of the camps on the mad Austrian's orders; he supposed that he should have been more specific when he detailed the procedures for disposal of subhuman corpses. Although, the man thought, that smell was more of fermenting feces than of rotting bodies.   
  
There was a pistol and a rapier leaning against the wall. The man picked them up and looked them over; they were his own. He would not be unarmed here, at least. Good. Even an SS- _Obergruppenführer_ had to be careful in some places. There was always some young buck thinking that a quiet assassination might get him up the Party hierarchy, after all.   
  
The man buckled the rapier to his hip and concealed his pistol in the coat, then walked calmly down the corridor, taking a moment to look out the window. Odd, he did not know this city, even from pictures. It seemed positively medieval, without so much as a motorcar or telegraph-pole in sight. What pathetic backwater was this?   
  
A door opened ahead. The man looked, and saw his first subhuman in this strange place. This one was female, with an Oriental cast to the face and white skin, and looked up in surprise at seeing the man. Her dress was thin and plain, somewhat dirty, with the right breast exposed. An unusual design. She saw the attempt at a reassuring smile on the man's face, and shrunk back in terror.   
  
"Where am I?" the man demanded calmly. "What is this place, who has brought me here, and how were my injuries healed?"   
  
"Milord, you are in Qarth, milord, and I don't know who brought you here, milord, please milord..."   
  
"Cease this moronic babble. I do not--currently--intend to harm you." The man stopped trying (and failing) to smile reassuringly, and took a calming breath. He needed to be balanced to simulate "normal" emotions properly. "Where is Qarth? Who leads this place? Tell me, now."   
  
"In Essos, milord, by the Red Wastes! We are ruled by the council of Pureborn!"   
  
Pureborn. That sounded like something the Mad Austrian would come up with. The man could work with that. The remaining specifics the man discarded as immaterial. He did not understand them and would not until he had performed some further research. A plan was beginning to form; it was imperative that the man install himself in the local hierarchy as quickly as possible, learn the system, and eliminate all opposition.   
  
But first, there was the matter of the subhuman before him.   
  
"Who are you? What is your position?"   
  
"I...I'm just a house slave, milord, I clean the palace."   
  
"And will anyone miss you?"   
  
"Only...only the mistress of slaves, milord, and then--oh, please don't hurt me, milord!"   
  
The man did not dignify that with an answer. The woman gasped as the man's rapier pierced her heart in one economical movement. The man moved forwards, muffling the woman's mouth with his hand, and held her until she stopped moving. Then he rose, wiped off the blade on her garment, and sheathed it, then grabbed the subhuman by her shoulders and hauled her corpse back into the room that he'd woken up in. She would not be found for some time, with luck--hopefully enough for the man to plan his entrance into local society and secure a position.   
  
A completely unfamiliar country and _Volk_ , and him with only a pistol and rapier. Reinhard Heydrich smiled to himself as he walked calmly out through the corridor door and into a new world. It had been a while since he'd had a real _challenge_.   
***  
Milunka Savic, tired, hungry, and increasingly irate, shoved her way through a crowd of yelling half-naked men with long braids, the crazy Englishman at her side. "I think this might not be such a good idea, English!"   
  
"We are rather short on options, madam," shouted Mad Jack Churchill as he passed two men attempting to pummel each other into unconsciousness with their bare hands. "And finding the local governor will likely be our quickest route into a secure position."   
  
"Like any position with these madmen is _secure_ ," Milunka grunted, and swore as yet another Dothraki got in her way. She was tired of these people already. "Excuse us, please!" The man half-turned, grunted, and turned away, refusing to budge. Savic got angry. "Hey, you! Move!"   
  
The Dothraki who'd been blocking the increasingly cross Serb's way turned, shouting something in what sounded like Turkish. Milunka heard 'your mother slept with a pig' quite distinctly, and stepped into the man's face on the general principle that she was a Serb and he sounded like a Turk. "Say that again, Turkish pig-fucker?"   
  
The Dothraki backhanded her. A lesser woman would've been sent stumbling backwards or knocked to the floor. Sergeant Savic didn't even sway. She wiped a hand across her face, looked at the trickle of blood, and smiled. "You want to try that again, little boy?"   
  
The man yelled something about knowing her place and drew an elaborate sword. Milunka grabbed the man's shoulder and punched him in the face with all of her strength. The Dothraki fell backwards, his nose spewing blood, and howled in pain. Milunka kicked the sword out of his hand and delivered her other boot to his crotch at high speed. The man whimpered and vomited over his own face.   
  
"What did he say to you?" asked Mad Jack in confusion.   
  
"He was a Turk who insulted my mother," the Serb replied in the sudden circle of relative silence. "Anyone else want to get in our way?"   
  
Three Dothraki grabbed for her from behind. The Serb twisted out of the first one's grasp, laid the second out flat with an uppercut, and was bowled over by the third, who punched her in the eye and scrabbled at her uniform. "Get off of me, you Turk pig!"   
  
"UNHAND THAT WOMAN!" yelled Mad Jack, and the Dothraki looked up just in time to get the Englishman's sword point stuck into his forehead, drawing a trickle of blood. The Dothraki's eyes crossed. "Get off of that lady, this instant, you lout!" ordered Churchill, his voice hard as steel. The Dothraki rose, snarling something. Milunka took this excellent opportunity to punch him in the groin.   
  
The Dothraki collapsed with a ruptured testicle, Milunka kicked him off of her, and the Serb rose, dusting off her uniform and re-donning her hat. "Thank you, Englishman." The surrounding Dothraki had formed a wary circle, for the moment.   
  
"I say, madam, that was a rather low blow on that fellow, there."   
  
"You complaining?"   
  
"Oh, no, madam, it was a fine, strong blow, but it was rather unsporting."   
  
Savic snorted. "Fuck sporting. I have children at home and a husband waiting for me. I'm getting back to them, alive. And I don't give a shit how I get there." She turned to the surrounding men and switched to her rough Turkish. "Hey! Fuckers! You getting from our way, or I need to gut you shitfaces like the pigs your fathers humped?"   
  
One of the men on the floor tried to grab her again. She stepped on his wrist without looking, and the man screamed in pain. The Dothraki grudgingly parted, revealing an obese man, a pale-haired youth, and a massive half-naked man seated next to a white-haired slip of an adolescent girl with purple eyes.   
  
Churchill uttered a grunt of confusion beside Savic. "And we were told that this is a wedding? Where is the bride?"   
  
"Don't know," the Serb muttered, "but I suspect that we aren't getting out of here without more violence."   
  
"Good! A good, sporting fight will get the old blood moving! Just what we need."   
  
The Serb looked askance at the grinning Mad Jack. "You're a madman, English."   
  
Before he could respond, the shirtless man rose and spouted off something in the Turkish-like tongue that Milunka only half understood. She definitely caught "wedding", though, so they were in the right place.   
  
"Right, who's the King here? And where's the bride? The Englishman here and I have decided to pledge our services to the King and Princess."   
  
"I am Viserys, the Third of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynars, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm!" announced the youth proudly. "Bow before me, woman!"   
  
The Serb and Englishman both bowed their heads as a token of respect. "Sir," Savic acknowledged. "Am I to presume that this young woman is the Princess?"   
  
"Yes," the girl replied, eyes wide with mixed fear and confusion.   
  
"Good, good...so where is the bride?"   
  
Viserys and the fat man looked at her in confusion, then the former pointed to the girl. "My sister, Daenerys, today weds the mighty Khal Drogo." He indicated the big shirtless man, who said something in the Turkish-like language that Milunka didn't catch.   
  
"What?" sputtered the Englishman. "But the girl cannot be more than fourteen, at the oldest! And you expect her to marry some...some savage barbarian?" He pointed at Drogo with high British outrage. "Sir, I demand that you step away from that young woman this very instant!"   
  
The big man yelled something back in near-Turkish. Milunka recognized "little man", "you have courage", and "I will cleave you limb from limb!"--not a good combination, really. Mad Jack stepped closer to the larger man, mustache bristling, and indicated Viserys. "Sir, if you do not speak or comprehend the King's English, I shall have to have this good fellow translate for you. Step away from this young lady at once, sir!"   
  
The fat man coughed. The tall barbarian looked over. The fat man said, in not-Turkish, "he challenges you for your bride's hand". The tall man turned back to Mad Jack, and seemed to swell with rage.   
  
"English..." growled Milunka, unshouldering her Mosin-Nagant and cocking it.   
  
"Have no fear, dear lady; I know what I am doing." Mad Jack took off his bow and drew his claymore, and Savic had to admit that it looked damn impressive. "Well, sir? Will you cease your vile attempts to marry this young lady against the laws of God and men, or shall I correct this injustice in the name of God, Saint George, and His Majesty the King?"   
  
Khal Drogo yelled something outraged, drew his own blade, and swung it at Mad Jack's neck. The Dothraki cheered.   
  
Mad Jack caught the blade on his claymore, mustache vibrating. "Well, I dare say that answers my question, good sir! Have at thee, then!"   
  
"Stop this idiocy!" Viserys protested. "I am your King!"   
  
But Mad Jack and Drogo were already too busy to care. Milunka took the moment to dash around the fighters as Mad Jack began singing, and knelt by the girl. "You all right, girl? Did they hurt you?"   
  
"No, they didn't," Daenerys managed over the chaos. "I am to marry Khal Drogo, to secure his army for my brother so that Viserys may regain his rightful throne!"   
  
Savic snarled. "Bastards. Don't worry, girl, you're safe with us now. We won't be forcing you to marry anyone. How old are you?"   
  
"Almost fourteen," Daenerys replied. "Please, stop them from fighting, I have to marry the Khal for his armies--"   
  
"To Hell with that, we don't marry teen-aged girls like you to Turk scum like him in Serbia. Come on, I'll take you out of here..."   
  
Meanwhile, Mad Jack was having the time of his life.   
  
" _God save our gracious King_!" he sang, blocking a slash from Drogo. " _Long live our noble King_!" A stab, parried by the Dothraki with lightning speed. " _God save the King_! _Send him victorious_ ," a slash, ducked by the Englishman, and returned with a flicking strike that was repelled easily. " _Happy and glorious_ ," Another slash for Mad Jack's neck, this one barely parried. " _Long to reign over us: God save the King_!"   
  
The Dothraki snarled something in anger and slipped under Mad Jack's guard, wrenching the sword out of his grasp, but the Englishman slammed himself bodily into Drogo's arm, throwing the larger man off-balance and knocking his sword from his hand. Drogo grabbed the Englishman by his jacket and lifted him up; Mad Jack kicked out, and dropped, Drogo stumbling backwards with a British boot bruising his chest. The Dothraki recovered and leaped forwards, crashing into the rising Englishman and crushing him to the ground...  
  
Mad Jack smiled. "Jolly good show, my dear sir, but I am not unarmed."   
  
Mad Jack's pistol fired, and Khal Drogo's chest erupted with blood. The British soldier shoved Drogo off of himself and stood, tutting over the blood on his uniform. "Jolly good show, I say. Well fought by that fellow."   
  
"Time to leave," Savic said, appearing at his shoulder with Daenerys in tow. "This is about to all go to Hell, we need to move."   
  
"Yes...about that..." muttered Mad Jack, retrieving his sword. There seemed to be a rather large amount of Dothraki surrounding them.   
  
"Shit," swore Savic, grabbing her gun to prepare to fight her way out...  
  
The Dothraki knelt as one, all looking to the Englishman. Mad Jack coughed in surprise. "Er. Well. Yes, this seems to have happened. Do you have any idea of what happens now, dear lady?"   
  
Savic looked at him like he was insane, which may have been technically the case. "You're asking _me_ , English?"   
***  
Reinhard Heydrich settled into his new office with some degree of...well, not pleasure, exactly, but a form of off-brand satisfaction that loosely imitated pleasure to the psychopath. It had been laughably easy to manufacture gunpowder, even using his own urine--in retrospect, those chemical books were well worth the cost. They'd helped with planning the Final Solution (chlorine, Himmler, chlorine would be the most effective...), but now they had literally secured him a position that he might have starved without.   
  
And now he was valuable to the Pureborn. He could use the Party's ideology, the Pureborn already saw themselves as a sort of superior bloodline; most were no more intelligent than the Mad Austrian, so manipulation should not be overly difficult. The warlocks presented a problem, of course...but Reinhard Heydrich had always excelled at _overcoming problems_. Especially since he was now in a position much like his old one, in charge of the local "civic guard".   
  
Heydrich settled down with a plate of food and a glass of local wine. He'd watched it all be prepared himself--Reinhard Heydrich was not stupid. The wine was passable, and the food rather tasty. Heydrich allowed himself to relax somewhat. He would need to build it all from scratch, but he was Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague. He'd already built an empire of terror from scratch, despite the best efforts of the fat pilot, the Mad Austrian, and that fool Himmler. This pathetic frontier backwater would be easy prey for the Butcher of Prague.   
  
The plan was simplicity itself. Introduce the gunpowder, prepare an army with muskets, upgrading later to rifles. Carve out a local empire, and usurp the local political system, setting up a secret police to help control things behind the scenes. He would need a front man, then. Someone not too bright, but popular and attractive. He'd be distinctly unlucky if he got stuck with another Mad Austrian, at least, but the right combination of stupid, gullible, and pretty was not easy to come by. He would have to search for two of the three--gullible and pretty, perhaps?--and maybe only get one, if he was unlucky.   
  
The Pureborn Mathos Mallarawan might work. He had power, but did not know how to use it. Not the brightest, but reasonably competent. Heydrich could manipulate him.   
  
The man's pocket-watch chimed. He had a meeting in only a few minutes. Heydrich took a small vial from his pocket and carefully dosed most of the remaining pastries and the bottle of wine with it, just in case. A pleasant smell of almonds emerged into the room. Heydrich disposed of the vial in his pocket, ate one of the pure pastries, sat back, and waited.   
  
There was a knock on the door a mere two minutes later. "Enter," Heydrich called, utterly calm as always.   
  
The man who entered was tall and pale, with a bejeweled nose. He looked up and down Heydrich's well-formed body almost too subtly for Heydrich to catch.   
  
Heydrich reevaluated his plan. Perhaps the merchant's death was not necessary. He might be suborned--but that was dependent on him being swayed by his lusts as the Mad Austrian was ruled by his primitive hatred. "Xaro Xhoan Daxos, I presume?" the former _Obergruppenführer_ asked politely, offering a goblet of wine.   
  
"Indeed," the man replied. "No, thank you, I do not like the taste of our local wine. Terrible of me, I know, but I do prefer the taste of fine Westerosi imports--as I'm sure that you, as a man of obvious wealth and taste, agree." _Clever deflection,_ Heydrich noted. "You are the new Captain of the Civic Guard, then?" the pale man continued, taking his seat.   
  
"Yes," Heydrich replied, taking a sip of his wine and tasting the barest hint of wild almonds. His smile did not show on his face. "My name is Reinhard Heydrich. And you, my lovely companion this fine evening, are a leader of the Thirteen merchants' guild, yes?"   
  
Xaro blushed and inclined his head demurely, but Heydrich noted that the charmed smile did not quite reach his eyes. "Why yes, I am. My fellows and I were slightly concerned, of course, at the change of hands of the guard, and some of my colleagues--not me personally, of course--expressed concern that giving the post to a foreigner might possibly harm the safety of our group's shipments."   
  
"Rest assured, sir, your merchandise is safe in my hands," Heydrich said, his slightly-corrupt-cop mask holding. Xaro smiled, leaning forward and letting a hand trail up Heydrich's leg. Heydrich noted that the subhuman was trying to seduce him, and filed this information away for later use.   
  
"Well, I am sure that my fellows and I will be...most reassured...to have such a...fine, muscular specimen of a man protecting our investments," Xaro said with just a hint of a husky whisper. Heydrich allowed his own hand to trail down and brush over Xaro's. This man was good, but he thought that he was dealing with a policeman, not Reinhard Heydrich. Further, Heydrich had no need for sexuality save when it could get him an advantage, whereas for this man it might be another weakness to be exploited.   
  
The Butcher of Prague allotted a smile to the seduction game. "You flatter me, sir."   
  
"Oh, no, it cannot be flattery when it is the obvious truth."   
  
Heydrich stroked a thumb up the other man's wrist, but inside he was evaluating, calculating, and knew that the Qartheen man was doing the same. The man was too clever by half, Heydrich thought, but also too well-connected. The pastries would need to be delayed. Killing this man now would be too obvious, would risk his position. Still, it was best to be prepared. "I must retire soon, but perhaps...at a later date..."   
  
"Of course," Daxos replied graciously, standing a moment before Heydrich. The Butcher of Prague motioned at the wine again, but the merchant declined with a similarly gracious motion. As expected.   
  
"I shall see you in a dozen days, then," Heydrich said. "Perhaps over dinner?"   
  
"That sounds...delightful," the merchant replied, smile warm but eyes calculating. Heydrich inclined his head in response. Good. The man was still hooked; Heydrich had options open. "I will send a slave with a more proper invitation."   
  
When the man had left, Heydrich threw the pastries into the fire. He'd built up something of a resistance to cyanide, of course, given how Himmler had waxed eloquent about prussic acid's use as a suicide pill (Heydrich would have been a poor schemer if he'd trusted the rat-like man who was nominally his superior), but it was still not good to push it.   
  
The Man with the Iron Heart settled back into his chair with the book on Qartheen history that he'd borrowed. There were a few obstacles to his takeover, but it shouldn't take too long for him to secure his technological advantage and manipulate his way into leadership. And then...world power was _his_ for the taking.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! I figure that a little evil to go with the badassdom will make more conflict; I also hope that Mad Jack was British enough. 
> 
> Mad Jack versus Drogo is no contest in a sword fight, because that's a crazy Englishman who liked using a sword fighting a warlord who has become leader of 40,000 men entirely through personal combat skills. However, Mad Jack has a pistol and Drogo does not. Mad Jack may also have accidentally doomed the world, too, since Daenerys's dragons may not be a thing now. 
> 
> On the other hand, the most decorated female soldier in modern history is now in Essos with a guy who literally killed Nazis with a bow and walked out of multiple concentration camps. That's probably a good thing. Minus side, there's the guy so evil he made HITLER go "dude, what the fuck is wrong with this guy?" wandering around Qarth and turning it into a fascist state. That's bad. 
> 
> A clarification on Heydrich's sexuality, because I don't want people to think that I was implying that asexuality is bad. I wrote Heydrich not as any particular sexuality, but as too consumed by his own cold ambition and sociopathy to feel sexual desire as we understand it. He's willing to have sex to manipulate people, but he doesn't feel any need to have it for his own benefit. As I noted in his introduction, it's questionable (to me, at least) if someone evil enough to plan the systematic murder of an entire religion just for his own personal power even qualifies as human. 
> 
> I'l try to update this when I can, but schoolwork is pressing at the moment.


End file.
